


A Grief Observed

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [52]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post 04x12 A New Life, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In the aftermath of the serial killer investigation and Ida Logan’s attack, the SRU struggles to readjust to normal life.  Fortunately, Greg Parker knows a thing or two about how to deal with grief; with the help of his team leader, they may just get through this mess intact after all.  But who invited Marina to the pity party?
Relationships: Hank Gerald/Donna Sabine, Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth/Shelley Wordsworth
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 26
Kudos: 12





	1. Plotting in the Locker Room

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fifty-second in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Go Sailing No More" as well as 04x12: A New Life, so spoilers for that episode.
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

It had been an unsettling few weeks. Greg Parker snorted to himself at the thought. If he was being blunt, it had been an unsettling few _years_. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of the decisions he’d made. He _particularly_ didn’t regret his decision to pull his team back, putting them on secondary status and practically bullying his commander into giving Wordy a week off. He’d been tempted to argue for Spike having that same week off, but eventually decided against it.

Wordy _needed_ the time off; time and space to come to grips with going lethal on the serial killer who’d been about to torture Spike to death. Greg knew his constable’s family would help with that, though he might need to do a personal debriefing with Wordy at some point. Get the whole mess out in the open and start draining the emotional poison it had inflicted.

“Morning, Boss.”

Glancing up from his locker, the Sergeant smiled. “Morning, Eddie.”

“Word off for the week?”

Trust Eddie to practically read his mind. Half-turning, Greg nodded once. “Who do you want as backup team leader?”

“Greg.” Exasperation and affection, all at once.

“It’s a precaution, Ed. Nothing more.”

Lane cast him a narrow-eyed glare, but minutely relaxed when Parker gazed back calmly. “Sam,” he decided. “And I’ll have Lou shadow him if we get a call out.”

“Do a little cross training?”

“Yep.”

The two men finished changing in companionable silence, heading out just as the rest of their teammates arrived. Lane moved towards the workout room, but paused when Parker tapped his shoulder and tilted his head at the briefing room. Resigned but game, the team leader trailed after his boss, arching an eyebrow when Greg tapped the controls to lower the steel door behind them.

“Something wrong, Boss?”

The stocky man let his shoulders slump and he heaved a sigh as he dropped into a chair. “Yeah, Eddie. And it’s more than just this thing with Wordy and Spike.”

Ed stilled, catching the reference at once.

Discouragement wrote itself across Greg Parker’s features. “Wordy needs more than just a week, Ed, but that’s all I can give him. Spike…” he stopped, grimacing.

* * * * *

_Greg kept the earnest expression on his face, cautiously navigating through the minefield of their subject’s fixation on the woman he was holding hostage. A slight misjudgment early on in the profile had led to his first ploy backfiring and now he was struggling to keep the man focused on_ him _instead of the woman. It had been an easy mistake to make – all the evidence had been pointing in that direction – but now the negotiator feared his misstep meant they wouldn’t be able to save_ both _subject and hostage._

_“Spike, I got a wall,” Ed reported over the comm, frustration ringing._

_“Me too,” Jules agreed._

_“Sam?” Wordy asked._

_Over the comm, they heard the blond panting. “I’m getting there, guys,” their final sniper called. “Is the subject still moving around?”_

_“Affirmative,” Wordy replied, worry entering his voice. “Why?”_

_“Wind’s picking up; I might not have a shot even when I get there,” Sam admitted._

_“Spike, Jules and I need new routes,” Ed growled._

**_“Copy that._ ** _Hyrste, **head to your right; might be hidden, but there should be a doorway there. I don’t know if it goes to the roof, but I’m looking at a new spot that should give you line of sight to the subject.** Éadweard, **sorry, but you’re gonna have to take another route. Sending it to your…”**_

_“Englisc, Spike, Englisc,” Wordy yelled, his frantic plea finally breaking through Spike’s monologue._

_Internally, Parker cringed. No Sierra shots and a negotiation that had already gone south. Wonderful. But his expression never twitched and he kept talking to their subject, letting Wordy handle getting Spike back on track as well as translating for Jules as to what her best route was._

* * * * *

“He’s still slipping,” the team leader filled in quietly.

“To say the least.”

Although none of the other lapses had been at critical, do-or-die moments like the first time, Sergeant and team leader were agreed that it was only a matter of time. Spike, realizing the same, was pushing himself twice as hard, desperate to stop slipping, but he still slipped at least once per shift and every member of the team now knew the Narnian word for English, which seemed to be the only way to break the bomb tech out of a slip.

Another sigh heaved out of Greg’s frame and he pushed himself upright to pace, his movements quick and agitated – a caged predator. “Sam’s been working with Giles, but he’s still right on the edge.” Fear gleamed in the hazel that turned briefly towards Ed. “If Donna hadn’t stopped…”

For a split second, the Sergeant _saw_ it all over again. Team Three’s team leader Donna Sabine aiming her weapon at her old partner, the man who’d betrayed several undercover officers to Ida Logan, matriarch of the Logan crime family, and followed up the betrayal by _personally_ shooting Donna’s newly wedded husband. The _crack_ of Apparition as Team One’s Auror liaison bypassed any negotiation and planted himself between the gun and its target.

“If she hadn’t stopped, he’d be dead,” Ed agreed, frown deepening. “He took one heck of a risk, Boss.”

“I don’t think he _saw_ it as a risk, Ed. More like an opportunity.” Parker halted, stock still as he wrestled with himself. Lane waited patiently, letting his boss decide what to share. When the words came, they were a punch to both men. “Sam had to take away his gun the first night, Eddie. He hasn’t given it back yet.”

“He’s _that_ close?” the team leader hissed, dismay and horror blazing through him in equal measure.

A nod. “Everything he said to Donna that day, Ed, he believes it.”

“Would explain why he’s trying to push Roy away,” the bald sniper mused; his boss offered another sober nod.

“And Donna…” Greg stopped, unable to continue.

Ed managed a mockery of a laugh. “Four messes by my count, Greg. We got any more you wanna pile on?”

The Sergeant did not smile and his demeanor was one of a man twice his age as he turned, found his chair, and sank back into it. “Well, I still have Marina as a girlfriend – we could add that if you’d like.”

The team leader’s jaw dropped open.

* * * * *

For a moment, Ed was too astonished to reply, then he blurted, “I thought Merlin fixed everything.”

His boss managed a parody of a shrug. “Missed a spot.”

It was Lane’s turn to pace, in a circle that took him around the briefing room table twice as he worked through their collective issues, frowning as he thought things through. Finally he asked, “How bad, Greg?”

Parker did not misunderstand. “She’s angry I didn’t introduce her to _mio nipotes_ right away. Lance took the blame, said he reacted badly to me having a girlfriend and ‘Lanna sided with him.” Hazel flashed with annoyance. “Marina cooed at them and literally patted _mio nipote_ on the head; she’s been treating them like petulant toddlers ever since.”

“And you’re sick of it,” Ed summed up.

A nod. “When she’s not treating them like that, she’s acting like their mother. I did call her on that; I said they _had_ a mother and she wasn’t winning any points by trying to _replace_ Victoria.”

Lane whistled low. “How’d she take it?”

“She told me I’d already replaced their father and they needed a mother, too.”

Ed winced. In one respect, Marina was right; his Boss _had_ replaced the kids’ father – magically speaking, the two young orphans had gained another ‘father’ when Greg had been acknowledged as Regent for the Ancient and Noble House of Calvin. In the _fundamentals_ , however… She was dead wrong. No member of Team One, Greg _included_ , had tried to _replace_ their parents. From the very _beginning_ , the Boss had established himself as their _uncle_ ; equal in authority to Arthur and Victoria Calvin, but _never_ a replacement. Sophie and Shelley had stepped in as the kids’ ‘aunts’, Spike’s mother adopting them as surrogate grandchildren. Family, yes; replacements, _never_.

“How do you wanna play this, Greg?”

Resignation gazed up, coupled with stress thick enough to choke on. “It’s not Marina’s fault she doesn’t remember our original deal.”

Ed inclined his chin.

“Nor is it my fault she hadn’t met _mio nipotes_ yet; as best I could tell, in _that_ history, they never came here in the first place.”

Another nod, though Ed winced, recalling quite clearly his own obliviousness and utterly stupid remarks during that week.

“She doesn’t know about magic or I would’ve just ‘fessed up, laid everything out, and tried to salvage our original agreement. Lance…” Greg trailed off, rubbing at his eyes. “He and Alanna wouldn’t have minded, Eddie; they would’ve been surprised, sure, but they wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss.”

The team leader tilted his head. “I hear you, Greg.” He frowned thoughtfully, tapping two fingers against one arm. “When _would_ you have introduced her to them?”

A wan smile. “Before or after the first date. Hadn’t decided which yet.”

“You had a couple more months to figure that out,” Ed mused aloud, earning an agreeing head bob. “You still think she has transference?”

Parker hesitated, giving the question careful consideration. The team leader moved to the blue panels, leaning against one as his boss’s eyes flicked back and forth in thought, weighing factors Ed could only guess at. There was a reason he dealt with team tactics, not negotiation.

“Yes.”

The answer dropped into the near silence around the two men; Ed arched a brow, but didn’t ask if Greg was sure. “So how do we handle it?”

Surprise flashed. “ ‘We’, Eddie?”

“If you think I’m going to sit by and let you deal with Morgana’s manufactured mess all on your own, you got another thing comin’, Greg.” Ed leaned forward, determined and intense. “Now spill, boss. You’ve got a plan and I want in.”

The smile was weak, but genuine. “Can _mio nipotes_ stay with you and Sophie for a few days? Marina and I need to have a serious discussion and I think it’s better if they’re not there for that.”

“And?”

“And I want Giles to stay at my place until he’s not quite as suicidal as he is right now.”

A two-pronged approach, Ed realized. While Greg’s focus would be on helping Giles recover, it would also give Marina an intimate eyeful of just how _hard_ being a cop was. Not to mention, with Giles present, Greg would have an additional witness and instant backup if his ‘discussion’ went off the rails.

Which just left the kids…and a Sophie who’d just been reminded of how _dangerous_ his job could be, even in the middle of a _wedding_. “What about sending the kids to Spike’s?”

“Spike’s?”

The team leader warmed to his idea. “Yeah. If Spike’s slipping on-duty, Greg, he’s slipping off-duty, too. They can understand him, right?”

Parker nodded. “It’s Narnian, Eddie; they can understand it.”

“So maybe they can help him,” Ed suggested. “Something’s gotta give, Boss, and they’re probably just as frustrated with Marina as you are. Get them outta the apartment and doing something instead of sulking ‘cause they can’t help _you_.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, debating the proposal. Gradually his demeanor warmed, stress receding a touch. “I like it, Ed. That just leaves Wordy and Donna.”

“Let Shelley handle Wordy,” the team leader advised. “Debrief him when he gets back, just the two of you, but do it like you planned and leave him alone this week.”

“And Donna?”

Now _there_ was a potential can of worms. She’d come so close to losing both her new husband and her career, maybe even her life, on her wedding day; all for an ultimately meaningless vendetta against her. Ed and Sophie had had more than their share of problems, but if he’d been in Donna’s shoes… Oh, boy, his team probably would’ve had to knock him out, tie him up, and drug him to stop him from going after someone _he_ believed had killed Sophie.

The constable thought hard, but finally shook his head. “Leave her alone, too, Greg. Hank made it through. Let them have their honeymoon and deal with things once she’s back.”

Morbid humor glinted. “I doubt she planned on their honeymoon being at St. Mungo’s.”

“Better St. Mungo’s than a funeral,” Lane countered. “At least she doesn’t have to hide magic from Hank anymore.”

“True,” Parker granted. He thought for a moment more, then pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks, Eddie. I’ll get the wheels turning.”

A wry smile worked its way across Ed’s face. “Any time, Greg.”


	2. Learning to Live Again

Detective Giles Onasi was less than happy when Sergeant Parker turned up on his doorstep and packed his bags before pushing him out the door and into the waiting SUV. Quite frankly, Onasi had a date with the eight bottles of Firewhiskey he’d snuck past Braddock and Roy, but he knew better than to say that. Accordingly, aside from his mulish, unhappy expression, he _said_ nothing, not even when Parker shooed him into a teenager’s bedroom with orders to make himself at home.

Alone in the bedroom, Giles let his bag slip down to the floor as he looked around, taking in the pale blue walls and white trim. Movie posters adorned most of the walls; a rather striking poster of an American bald eagle landing occupied the final wall and caught his eye; he whistled low at the detail captured of the magnificent predator. Though he couldn’t understand the caption. “Gear Down… Flaps Down… ‘Cleared to Land.’ ”

“Aviation reference.”

The Auror jerked around, blinking at the sight of Sergeant Gregory Parker in a comfortable pullover and jeans. “I thought you said you had a date tonight,” he blurted.

One shoulder hiked in a makeshift shrug. “I do.”

Giles blinked dumbly.

Parker sighed, running a hand over his head and through remnants of brown hair. “Marina needs to know that my job, my _men_ come first. All she can see right now is the glory. Saving lives and keeping the peace. She doesn’t understand the price we pay, some more than others.” He turned away abruptly. “Something to drink?”

Giles trailed after his host, feeling lost and out of his depth. “Doesn’t your family come first?”

The Sergeant led the way into his small kitchen and poured a glass of water. “Sure they do,” he confirmed, turning and offering the glass. “But Marina isn’t family. Not yet.”

“But she’s your girlfriend.” Confusion echoed.

“Because of the spell Morgana used.” Frankness pinned the Auror. “She doesn’t remember that I originally insisted that she wait six months before contacting me again because I believed, and _still_ believe, she has transference. She sees me as boyfriend material because my team and I saved her life.”

Onasi fidgeted with his glass. “You want her to see what can happen.”

A nod. “I also want to discuss how she’s been treating _mio nipotes_.” Hazel drilled into him. “You need something to do, Giles. Something besides sitting in that empty house, thinking about your gun, and drinking Firewhiskey.”

The brunet flinched.

“Yes, Giles, I saw the bottles. Sam’s already on his way to your place with Simmons and you’ll get them back along with your gun once you’re out of the woods.”

“You…you told Nathan?”

For an instant, silence rang between the two men. Parker’s expression remained calm. Steady. Damn him. “Simmons knew what was going on as soon as Sam asked him for a key to your back door. Came straight to me the next day and demanded to know what happened.”

“And you told him.” His voice was dull. Resigned.

“I told him you were forced into re-living your past trauma in order to save two of your teammates. No details, Giles. What you told us that day is between you and _us_.”

“It’s on your transcripts,” Onasi flared.

“Transcripts that are classified. Additionally, I’ve asked Commander Holleran to seal that particular transcript, due to the viciousness of the attack on my constables.”

Damn him. Damn them all for _caring_ , for not _just letting him die_. Something in Giles’ chest wrenched, but he was too numb to react. The water was too plain, with nothing to flood his mind and stop him from _thinking_. Nothing to dull the pain of _living_.

* * * * *

Marina’s eyes were tight, annoyed, and displeased as she stepped inside Greg’s apartment. He’d called her, even before going to pick Onasi up, briskly informing her that a fellow officer was going through a rocky time and staying with him for a couple of days. He’d offered to reschedule their date, but Marina had politely declined.

Giles was still in the kitchen, though he’d moved to the table with his water. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at the water and idly turning the glass. Dark circles and the redness of his eyes spoke to how well he’d been sleeping. As had the numerous empty bottles Greg had found in the Auror’s bedroom.

The Sergeant opted to ignore his house guest as he poured Marina her own glass of water and returned to sorting their dinner out. Most of the meal had already been prepped by Alanna, the young teenager attempting her own peace offering in the face of a girlfriend who looked to be sticking around for the long haul; Greg sprinkled a last topping of shredded cheese over the top of the homemade lasagna and slid the large tin container into the oven.

“You work with Greg?”

Parker kept his eyes on his work as Giles replied, “Every so often, ma’am.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Giles,” Greg chided without turning. “He and his partner Roy helped us track down a serial killer a few weeks ago.” Part of Greg winced at bringing the case up, but it was true.

“The serial killer targeting the homeless?” Surprise rang. “Why was your team involved in that, Greg?”

Dusting off his hands, the negotiator retrieved his own glass of water and joined the other two adults at the table. “We volunteered.”

“Why did you?” Giles asked abruptly. “I was going to ask…” he trailed off, life draining away.

“You remember Glynnis?”

The Auror froze, though his jaw dropped open. “He targeted _her_?”

A sober nod. “I’m surprised Roy didn’t tell you. He and Eddie interrupted them. Probably saved her life.”

“Glynnis?” Marina mixed ice and curiosity in the question.

Parker sighed. “A couple years ago, Glynnis was a witness when I was snatched off the street by a guy with a vendetta against me – long story. Then last spring, she was a witness to my nephew’s car accident. Forensics concluded he died in the accident even though his body wasn’t found; Giles and Roy found him after Glynnis gave them a statement about _mio nipote_ getting snatched out of the car before it burned.”

“Whoever rescued him didn’t take him to the hospital?”

Greg shook his head. “No, she tried to keep him as a replacement for her dead son.”

Marina gawped. Dour amusement flashed across Giles’ face, then his attention returned to his water. For his part, Greg engaged Marina, allowing her to chatter about her day and recent events at her job. Ordinary and normal, though the officer kept an ear out for any more obsessed coworkers. Once was quite enough, thank you.

When the oven timer went off, Greg found his pot holders and set out a wooden serving board on the table before easing the oven door open and pulling the bubbling lasagna out. Rich scents of cooked cheese and meat filled the air as the dish simmered. Even the numb, sulking Giles glanced up, his nose twitching at the smell. Marina located the dishes and silverware, putting them out for when the lasagna cooled enough to eat.

“Greg, is that why the children didn’t want to meet me?” she asked suddenly.

The negotiator blinked, considering that honestly – though it wasn’t what had happened, Marina raised an excellent point. In the aftermath of Helen’s abduction, Lance might well have been leery of an unknown female ‘invading’ his ‘territory’. “You know, I think I’ll have to ask,” he decided at last. “It’s possible, but Marina, I could have overridden them.”

Marina’s lips pursed, but she merely nodded and located his napkin holder.

* * * * *

Dinner itself was awkward and not just because there was a ‘third wheel’ present. Marina, when Giles made no move to reach for the lasagna, picked up the Auror’s plate and dished a generous portion onto it, along with a maternal ‘eat it or else’ glare. Greg did his best to verbally finagle himself and his _nipotes_ out of Marina’s doghouse without betraying any hints of magic, his frustration evident to the observing, sulking Onasi.

Eventually, conversation turned back around to the serial killer, Marina curious and the two Aurors defensive. Parker tightly explained that the killer had gotten the drop on one of his constables, managing to capture a second before vanishing through a hole in the police blockade. Giles chipped in, claiming extensive tracking experience that had allowed him to track the killer to his bolthole. Both men implied that the missing constables had been located right along with the serial killer, leaving out the disastrous secondary search.

* * * * *

They were hiding something. Both of them. Marina hid her thoughts behind a smile as she helped Greg clean up. Detective Onasi had taken himself back to the room he was staying in, citing a need to unpack his bag, his discomfort clear. And the jagged edges to him…Marina shivered.

“Greg?”

Her boyfriend glanced at her, somehow understanding her question. He was so good like that. Shadows flitted through hazel eyes – shadows and old sorrow. “Not my story to tell, Marina. But he’s right on the edge.” Sorrow deepened. “I’d rather not see him go Danny’s route.”

“Suicide?” Marina whispered, throat tightening.

Frankness pinned her. “It was close, Marina; Eddie talked him down. But if we’d paid attention, then maybe it never would’ve gotten that far.” He set the dishes in his hands down. “Marina, this is our life. We keep the peace and deal with people in the worst twenty minutes of their lives. Sometimes we get everyone out alive and sometimes we don’t.” Hazel flickered. “Ed once had to take the shot on a man holding a woman hostage. Got sued for wrongful death, won the lawsuit, then the man’s son took a rifle up on City Hall and started shooting people, just so he could get to Eddie.”

Marina gasped.

“Lou stepped on a Russian land mine; it’s a miracle he’s still alive.”

Another gasp.

“That time Giles and I told you about, when I got snatched off the street? I ended up locked in a meth lab, with a timer counting down to the whole place going up in flames; my team got me out just in time.”

No. Just no. Marina trembled, tears brimming at she stared up at the man she loved, his expression dark like nothing she’d ever seen before.

Greg drew breath to continue, then froze, his head snapping around. He bolted, racing through his living room with Marina right on his heels. The next thing she knew, he’d rammed into his own bedroom and was snatching the detective away from an open gun safe. “Marina, close it!”

Marina sprang forward, pushing the lid down over the gun. She turned the key and yanked it free before turning to regard her boyfriend wrestling his fellow officer to the floor. Seeing Marina between him and gun safe, the brunet crumpled, all the fight draining out of him. Softly, Greg asked, “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear you, Giles?”

“Worth a try,” the man mumbled.

Worth a _try?_ Raw grief stared Marina in the face, pain so deep she couldn’t understand how any human being could _live_ with that agony.

“Giles, do you think Morgana would want you to do this to yourself?” How could Greg’s voice stay so level? “Do you think Revan would want you to do this? Brian?”

“Dustil would.”

“Dustil is _wrong_.” Fierce, protective, and utterly determined. “Lion’s Mane, Giles, why are you _doing_ this to yourself? Huh? You’ve lived with this for _years_ , why now?”

Shame glowed. “You didn’t know.”

Fury blazed. “So?” Greg shook Onasi’s shoulders. “You know what, I’m with Roy, you idiot. I don’t _care_ how many times you tried to make the pain stop back then. But it stops _now_ , Giles Onasi. No more drinking, no more trying to get at every sidearm you get near, no more sulking and pushing us away.”

“They’re gone.” The unvarnished, unrelenting anguish in those two words; Marina turned her head away in vicarious shame.

“And you’re not.” Greg’s voice was implacable. “Now come on, we’re going for a _long_ walk and you’re going to tell me about the day you met your wife. The day your son was born. Maybe even the day Revan finally got some sense through that thick skull of yours. Give me a few ideas.”

Marina held her silence and _understood_. Understood the point Greg had been trying to make for _weeks_. The life of a policeman’s wife wasn’t for everyone and there was no shame in that. It meant dealing with pain and grief, with losing friends and strangers alike. Could even mean being in the line of fire yourself. It was overtime and sorrow, joy when they came home safe and relatively whole, grief when you sat beside them and watched the life flicker and dim.

Broken people and broken families struggling to get through the night to the next sunrise.

“Greg?”

Her boyfriend glanced up at her, though his focus remained on his colleague.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

A faint smile. “Copy that.”

The blonde woman dipped her head and left. She had some serious thinking to do.


	3. Living and Loving

Wordy sat on his couch, eyes locked on his hands as the fingers flexed open and closed. _I killed someone. Choked him to death like he didn’t matter. Took him away from his friends and family._ Fingers curled in a ball and Wordy hunched forward, a muted sob breaking free. A Lestrange, that’s all he was…he didn’t _deserve_ to be a Wordsworth…not when he was _just_ as much a monster as his half-brothers.

It hadn’t been so bad at first. There was Spike to look out for, especially since only he and Sarge could understand when the bomb tech slipped into Narnian. Though Sarge’s nephew had wryly pointed out that what the team was calling ‘Narnian’ was actually Old English, a magical language well known during the era of Camelot – in addition to being the native tongue of the Old Narnians’ magic. A heritage passed down by the Lion in honor of the first King and Queen of Narnia.

Hot calls had swamped them – plenty of distractions and ways for Wordy to Not Think About It. Sam sharing news of Giles’ battle against depression and suicidal urges. The medical checkups for both Parkinson’s and the strain he’d allegedly put on his magical core. School events and Shiloh competitions – even one weekend he and Shelley had snuck away for a date.

He’d pushed away the memory of the subject’s face as Wordy’s hands tightened around his neck. The bulging eyes, the desperate gasps, fingernails scrabbling, weakly attempting to dislodge the death grip. Feeling flesh give under his fingers, a muted crack that had probably been the subject’s neck. The big constable swallowed, feeling his gorge rise, but the last thing he wanted was to draw Shelley’s attention. Or Emmy’s – the little glass hummingbird hadn’t left him alone all day, always hovering just out of swatting range.

But denial had come to a crashing halt in the wake of Ida Logan’s attack on Donna Sabine’s wedding and the spouses of those officers she held responsible for her husband’s arrest, conviction, and death. Wordy had looked the frigidly cold woman in the eye – and seen himself looking back. He was just as much a ruthless killer as she, just as guilty and deserving of punishment.

For _weeks_ he’d been hugging his wife and children with blood-soaked hands. Hands that had killed, squeezing tighter and tighter until his victim ceased to move. The brunet stilled, all except his fingers, which slowly uncurled from their fists. _I killed someone._

Why had Sarge given him a week off? He should’ve given Wordy his pink slip or had him arrested for murder.

_Killer. Murderer. Monster._

Wordy flinched from the inner voice, but couldn’t deny the truth in each hissed word.

_I’m a_ Lestrange _…_

* * * * *

Shelley rubbed her arms, watching from the doorway as her big, strong husband crumbled to bits. Emmy hovered right above her shoulder, letting out soft chirps of distress. She could still remember the night _it_ had happened, when a knock at the door had come…

* * * * *

_Shelley froze at the sight of Greg Parker on her doorstep, still in his dusty, sweat-soaked uniform and utterly spent. Both hands rose to her mouth. “No. Please no.”_

_“He’s alive, Shelley.”_

_She nearly collapsed right there. Alive, her husband was_ alive _._

_“May I come in?”_

_Unable to speak, the blonde moved aside, trembling as her husband’s boss entered the house, his expression unreadable. “What…what happened?”_

_Hazel eyes full of anguish swung to her. “Wordy…_ Kevin _had to go lethal today.”_

_Fresh horror swamped her. “He shot someone.”_

_“Shelley, I wish he_ had _.” Greg shook his head. “He and Spike… Shelley, they got snatched by the serial killer that’s been murdering homeless people. Kevin killed him before he could kill Spike.”_

_“How, Greg, how?” If Kevin hadn’t shot the subject…_

_Anguish deepened. “He had to choke a man to death, Shelley.”_

* * * * *

When Kevin’s shoulders started to shake, she moved, slipping in beside him and drawing him close. He resisted her pull at first, then clung to her, tears soaking her shirt, though he made no sound at all. Shelley cradled her husband, adjusting her position to support his weight better. She hadn’t told him she knew about his going lethal, nor how he’d done it. It didn’t matter to her – Kevin was Kevin and she _knew_ he’d only done it to save Spike’s life.

Her Kevin was a _cop_ ; he didn’t know _how_ to be a murderer. Now she just had to convince _him_ of that. So she sat next to her husband, one hand stroking his back as soundless anguish hid in her shoulder.

* * * * *

That evening at dinner, Kevin stirred his soup, gray eyes dead and numb; Shelley waited until the soup was cool enough to eat, then quietly tipped crackers into the bowl and gave her husband an ‘eat that _now_ ’ glare. He obeyed, his movements mechanical and it was clear he hadn’t tasted a thing. Their daughters looked on anxiously, unused to a father who hadn’t even asked them about their days or what they’d learned at school.

As soon as Kevin was done with the soup, he got up and vanished back to the living room. Emmy trilled, fluttering after him; Shelley let the glass hummingbird go, trusting the magical creature to alert her if Kevin tried to leave the house.

“Mommy?”

The blonde turned to her eldest daughter, expression solemn. She wasn’t surprised by the implicit question, only that it had taken so long for Claire to ask.

“What’s wrong with Daddy?”

Shelley sighed and swept her eyes to include all three of her children in the explanation. “Your father and one of his teammates ended up in a bad situation a few weeks ago.”

“Did Daddy have to hurt someone?” Lilly asked.

“Yes, he did,” Shelley confirmed. “He saved your Uncle Spike’s life when he did it, but he’s still having a tough time dealing with it.” One by one, she met her daughters’ gazes. “You need to give your Dad some space right now.”

* * * * *

She should’ve known Ally wouldn’t listen. Less than an hour after firmly instructing her daughters to play quietly anywhere _but_ the living room, she found Ally snuggled up to her father, lobbying for a pony ride at one of the stables on Toronto’s outskirts. The little girl had been begging to go for _weeks_ , ever since she’d been sick on the day three ponies had been brought to her primary school.

To Shelley’s surprise, Kevin was looking over the pamphlet Ally had gotten from her teacher, interest and a touch of _life_ in his expression. Sensing his wife’s gaze, he glanced up. “Tomorrow’s a Teacher Institute Day?”

“For Lilly and Ally,” Shelley confirmed. “Claire still has school, though.” She indicated the flyer. “You want to go?”

“They’ve got trail riding, too.”

Trail riding. She and Kevin had gone trail riding a time or two before they’d started dating, and several times during their dating years. She still remembered the first time; Kevin had agreed because _she_ wanted to go, but he’d baulked at the sight of an animal taller and heavier than he was. As soon as he was up, though, he’d been a natural, moving with the horse as if he’d been riding his whole life.

“I’ll call the school in the morning and tell them Claire’s taking a family day.”

Gratitude shone and another thread of _life_ unfurled.

* * * * *

Wordy felt something in him ease as he swung up on the bay mare he’d been assigned. The mare’s ears flicked forward, then back, listening for any commands. He smiled and patted her neck, smile growing when she whickered and shook her neck out. The constable shifted in the saddle, switching the reins to his left hand while he checked the length of his right stirrup. It was a touch too long, so Wordy shortened it one hole, nodding to himself when his boot went in and he was able to put his heel down.

Next to him, Shelley swung up on a gray gelding, eyes sparkling at him and their daughters – the latter three already mounted on smaller horses that only just escaped being ponies. Claire grinned from atop her palomino, while Lilly mimicked her father’s check of his stirrups on her piebald paint, and Ally giggled on her dark bay horse which sported one blue eye and one brown eye.

The wranglers moved between the five Wordsworth horses as well as four others, double-checking stirrups and reins while they handed out last minute advice. Lean forward on the upslope, back on the down slope. Don’t drop the reins or let the horses graze. Heels _down_ , missy! Don’t let the horses pass each other or head back to the barn.

Advice given, the wranglers mounted their own horses and led the group away from the hitching posts and out onto the trails.

* * * * *

Wordy shifted back, idly drawing rein as his mare slowed to a halt. Above them, the darkening clouds allowed the first raindrops to fall, speckling the horses’ coats with darker hues. The big man tugged his rain slicker free from the ties on the back of the saddle, pulling it over his head as the wranglers dismounted to help his daughters with their own slickers. Behind him, Shelley wriggled into her rain protection, cheerfully waving off assistance. Thunder rumbled in the distance, prompting several whickers and anxious shifts from the horses.

The wranglers immediately decreed a return to the stables; though Wordy cast a longing glance at the trails moving farther up, he turned his mare to follow Lilly’s paint. Although the ride itself had been cut short, something about being in the open air, with nothing to think about save keeping his mount moving, had eased the tension inside of him. Tack creaked as the horses angled downwards towards the same creek they’d crossed early on. He inhaled, enjoying the scent of leather and horse, mixed with the pine of the forest around them.

Yes, he’d killed a man, but that same man had murdered close to forty of Toronto’s homeless. Would have _tortured_ Spike to death with that mockery of an autopsy. Would have killed him next, likely with a second ‘autopsy’. Wordy glanced down at his reins, held firmly, but with enough slack for the mare to drop her head. Clean hands.

His gun had been empty. Spike’s gun had been out of reach. He was no wizard…all he’d had to protect himself and his teammate had been his hands. The bay whickered, angling her track upwards; he leaned forward to help her balance.

When he’d woken up in St. Mungo’s, he’d been shocked to see Lou right beside him – Lou should’ve been with _Spike_. But even as he tried to vocalize that, the tan-skinned constable had shaken his head.

_“Wordy, man, I’m right where I should be. I know what you did – you saved my best friend’s life. You saved every one of that monster’s future victims. Don’t ever forget that.”_

He’d frozen, staring at Lou and struggling to understand – he’d _killed_ a man, choked him to death like it was _nothing_ , and Lou was _thanking_ him?

_“Thirty-eight, Wordy.”_ Anguish had blazed. _“Thirty-eight victims, forty with you and Spike. You did what you had to do to survive. Don’t you dare blame yourself – he chose his own death the day he set that house of horrors up.”_

The horses turned, his mare pausing to nibble on a patch of grass; Wordy tapped her with his heels, smiling when she snorted objection. A second, firmer tap sent her after her herd.

Inches and seconds. Rescues none of them deserved. Lives and family none of them had earned. Saving lives and keeping the peace. His shoulders straightened, ready to bear that burden once more. Someone had to do it. Someone had to stand between the innocent and those who would destroy that innocence. Someone had to make sure his daughters grew up safely, in a world that would accept them for who they were.

Rain fell around him, his horse breaking into a trot; he automatically posted with her beat, hearing Shelley’s yelp of surprise as her gelding followed the mare’s lead.

“Kevin!”

He laughed and knew it was genuine.

_“I’m Team One and I’ll_ be _Team One long after you’re cooling your heels in McKean.”_

He’d believed it then; he believed it now.

_“I know you’re not ready to hear it, Wordy, but you did good today. You and Spike. When you’re ready, let me know and we’ll debrief.”_

_“Thanks, Sarge.”_

Time to get back in the saddle and back to his _life_. But for now…Wordy tipped his head back, grinning as rain fell on his face and Ally squealed delight at her horse trotting home.


	4. Loving and Living

Donna gazed out the window, her half-hearted attempt at knitting lying tangled and unnoticed on a nearby chair. Behind her, Hank was finishing up lunch, moving as if he’d never been injured in the first place, never mind shot twice in the back. Alive… _alive_ … The blonde constable’s hands trembled slightly, memories of _that_ day running through her head yet again. Her wedding day should’ve been the happiest of her life, but instead Ida Logan’s revenge had nearly taken away the love of her life. It _had_ taken away her old partner; with the clarity of hindsight, she could see how Bill had been manipulated. How he’d been drawn further and further in until there hadn’t been any way out. Not that she planned on ever telling him that – or forgiving him for what he’d _done_.

* * * * *

_Her new husband was gone…gone because of_ him _; how could he? How could Bill_ betray _her like this and call it for_ her _sake? How_ dare _he? Her gun trembled, but stayed steady on her former partner’s chest – did he think she would forgive him for_ murdering _the love of her life? Did he think his tears and protestations of being ‘forced’ held any weight with her_ now _? Lane and Parker were talking, but the rising tide of blood and fury drowned them out. Why should she stop? Bill was a_ traitor _, he’d_ given _Ida Logan everything she wanted, trading information for a few drinks in a_ bar _. He_ deserved _to die…the only_ justice _her Hank would ever get._

Crack.

_“If you’re gonna shoot him, you’ll have to shoot_ me _first.”_

_“Giles, get out of the way,” Donna hissed, glaring at the wizard who’d just_ Apparated _between her and Bill. He stood calmly, as if he_ hadn’t _just blatantly flouted the Statute of Secrecy,_ wasn’t _standing with the barrel of a gun only inches from his chest. “I’m not shooting you.”_

_The brunet cocked his head, an odd glint in his eyes. “Why not? I’m worse than he is.”_

_What? Even Bill gawped at the claim, watery eyes confused and bewildered as he gazed up at the wizard protecting him from Donna’s wrath._

_“I got my own wife killed. My partner died saving my sorry hide. My son ended up being raised by a psychopath; he hates me for letting his mother die.” Dark eyes flickered towards Team One. “Everyone I get near ends up dead, so if you’re shooting_ anyone _today, you start with_ me _– maybe then I won’t get_ them _killed, too.”_

_Dead silence draped the rundown warehouse. Donna locked gazes with the Auror and_ knew _. He believed what he was saying – with every fiber of his being, he_ believed _it was_ his _fault that he’d lost his family, lost his partner. If she shot him fatally, all the better in his book. Her eyes flicked down to Bill and she cringed internally. Her onetime partner was staring up at a man who’d lost twice as much as him, jaw hanging open. And still the wizard waited, his expression calm and a glimmer of black hope in his eyes. He_ wanted _to die,_ wanted _the pain to stop. Suicide by cop._

_Her gun dropped of its own accord; she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot one man to get to the other. Couldn’t sacrifice what was left of the woman Hank had fallen in love with for_ revenge _. But… Anger narrowed her eyes. “_ Obliviate _him,” she demanded harshly._

_Raw disappointment stole across Onasi’s face and he sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. Then dark eyes darted sideways. “Sergeant Parker?”_

_“He gave out information to a guy he met in a_ bar _,” Donna hissed, glaring anew at Bill Kedrick. “Handed it out like_ candy _; you let him remember this and he’ll be spilling secrets before the ink’s dry.”_

_“Donna?” Confused, bewildered, and pleading._

_“Shut up!”_

_Parker glanced at his team leader. “Ed?”_

_The bald sniper didn’t hesitate. “I agree with her, Boss. He’s a walking security risk; three dead, two wounded just ‘cause he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”_

_For a few moments more, tension hung, then the Sergeant’s gaze returned to Onasi. “Do it.”_

_The Auror dipped his head in acceptance of the order, then turned, his wand jabbing in Bill’s direction. Kedrick’s eyes unfocused, going blank; by the time he recovered, he was getting slammed down to the ground with cuffs clicking around his wrists and Onasi was long gone._

* * * *

Hank made a little exclamation, drawing Donna around from the window. She smiled, realizing he was just marveling over the disappearing dirty dishes. It was one thing to work magic-side, but over the past few days at the hospital, the blonde had started to realize just how _different_ the magical world was – little wonder Parker’s kids had struggled to learn how to live tech-side.

“How are you feeling?”

His eyes rose to hers. “Like I’m ready to get out of here.” Wonder stole across his face. “Never thought I’d say that so…”

“Soon?” Donna offered when her husband trailed off. “I know; it’s really amazing what they can do with magic.”

“And you work with them.” Awe joined the wonder, awe of _her_ ; she fidgeted, uneasy.

“Team One works magic-side the most,” Donna pointed out. “My team’s still working on getting a permanent liaison.”

Hank frowned, cocking his head to the side. “The…wizard…I met, he’s not your liaison?”

Donna shook her head. “He’s really Team One’s,” she replied. “I mean, he’ll work with us, but he and his partner – everyone knows they’re practically Team One.”

A low chuckle brought them around, tensing defensively, but the man in the doorway merely inclined his head, amusement flashing through rich blue eyes. He stepped forward, revealing messy black hair, wide ears that framed his slim face, and a red neckerchief above a deep blue cloak. “Good afternoon.”

Recognition tingled. “I’ve met you before,” Donna said slowly.

The wizard’s smile grew wider. “Yes. On the day you first learned magic was real, Constable Sabine.” He bowed slightly. “I am Merlin Emrys.”

Hank gaped and Donna took a step back, her eyes widening. After a moment, she stammered, “C-can we h-help you?”

Merlin chuckled again and made his way further into the room, tapping his staff on the floor as his expression sobered. “I heard about what happened on your wedding day – and what _caused_ it.”

“And?” The couple was wary and Donna slid to her husband’s side, gripping his hand tightly.

Old sorrow wound its way across the ancient wizard’s face. “I once found myself in rather a similar situation, Constable Sabine. I will tell the tale, if you will hear it.”

Donna blinked in surprise and turned towards Hank, silently asking his opinion. He glanced between her and Merlin, awe and wonder reappearing, though a glint of caution lurked. Abruptly, he asked, “Can you tell us why the other wizards don’t like me?”

The constable flinched and opened her mouth, but Merlin lifted a hand, stilling her. “I can,” he replied quietly. “Quite simply put, they do not like _either_ of you because you do not have magic.” Thoughtful, the wizard stroked his staff. “Memory runs short in your world; you live on a day to day basis and historical events are just that: historical. But for those of magic…”

“They remember,” Donna murmured.

A sharp nod. “We remember the witch hunts, the purges, and every single time those without magic have persecuted those _with_ magic. The memories are as fresh for _this_ generation as if such events had happened to _them_ , not their distant ancestors.” A sad smile twitched at the edges of Merlin’s mouth. “Unfortunately, that has also often justified calls within the magical world to fear and suppress anyone regarded as _different_. Those born to non-magical parents, those with non-human ancestry, those whose magical natures are _different_.” He inclined his head in Donna’s direction. “You have seen such things yourself, Constable Sabine.”

“Yes.” A whisper, but loud enough for Hank to hear.

“I believe it would astound many of those in power were they to realize just how _similar_ their mindset is to that of the late King Uther Pendragon,” Merlin mused. “After all, _he_ feared and suppressed all those who were different from himself – those who had _magic_.” Sorrow stole into his eyes once more. “I was in service to Prince Arthur when I met my love. Her name was Freya and I love her still.”

“Who was she?” Hank asked, caught by the mention of the famous King Arthur.

“She was a Druid, brought to the city by a bounty hunter in search of the reward Uther would give whenever a magical user was brought before him.”

Donna shivered. “What would happen to them?”

“If they were lucky, beheading,” Merlin replied bluntly. “If not, a pyre.”

Hank swallowed harshly – a brutal death, regardless.

Shifting to stand more at ease, the ancient wizard smiled to himself. “It was a great risk, one my mentor reprimanded me for afterwards, but I freed her from the cage and hid her in the tunnels below the city. I stole food and clothing for her and even made plans to leave Camelot with her; she could hardly remain with the entire city searching for her.”

“What happened?” Hank inquired, grasping his wife’s hand.

Merlin sighed, a deep, soundless movement that betrayed the grief he still felt. “I had not known before releasing her from the cage, but Freya had been cursed long before she set foot in Camelot. She had killed a man, you see, in self-defense, and the man’s mother cursed her in retaliation.” Grief deepened. “Each night, Freya would be transformed into a bastet and would roam, striking and killing at will.”

“Like a werewolf,” Donna gasped.

“Very like,” Merlin agreed. “Though Freya could not spread her curse as a werewolf does. In my naïvety, I did not realize one of the reasons all of Camelot sought to find her was because the bastet was roaming at night, striking fear into the whole of the city. When I discovered her curse, I knew we must leave as soon as possible. My magic could keep her contained while we sought a cure, then we could settle somewhere safe, well away from Camelot.”

“What went wrong?” The blonde constable regarded the wizard, suspecting she already knew the end of the story.

Another sigh rattled the air. “On the night we were to leave, I was late in getting to her hiding place. She transformed and flew out over the city, encountering a group of knights searching for the ‘beast’ killing innocents. I saw the confrontation, but could not intervene in time; one of the knights struck her a fatal blow. She escaped, managing to reach me before she died.”

For a minute, none of them spoke; the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the clock. At last Merlin shook off the memories and turned to Donna. “Be grateful you still have your love. To walk through life with a partner and helpmeet – there are few greater gifts, young one. Do not allow your former partner’s betrayal to taint your marriage, do not allow your bitterness towards _him_ to poison what you have with your love.”

Donna stiffened. “Did _you_ forgive whoever _murdered_ Freya?”

Merlin met her eyes. “I had to,” he replied simply.

The constable blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

“He was my best friend – and my King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt this story to bring you a RL update. The RL update is: there is no project.
> 
> Okay, now that I got that out of the way, please bear with me. So, there are two client companies (actually, there were three, but we don't care about number three) that I will call Finance and Telephone. Both are in Dallas, one in Westlake and the other in Richardson (where I live, actually). Way back at the New Year, I started a background check with Finance and it came through just fine, so all I needed was for my ID to be created and then I would've started at Finance. Then, wham, outta nowhere, I was pulled from Finance and assigned to Telephone, where I have sat for the past two months, basically doing nada. And last week, on Friday (after I posted), I found out that Telephone decided to pull the plug on the Pega part of the project, leaving me (and four others) out in the cold.
> 
> You know, it's funny (in a not funny sort of way). From what I was told, the whole reason I got yanked from Finance is because Telephone started screaming at the top of their lungs for Pega developers - and my employer obliged. So I asked if I could go back to Finance and the hiring manager said he would see if he could do that.
> 
> Whelp, as of yesterday, I have resumed onboarding with Finance and aside from a brief scare where I was told 'Austin' instead of 'Westlake', I will be working in Westlake and although the commute will be a pain, come June, my current lease will be up and I can move. I'm hoping there will be no more last second surprises and that this is it. So maybe another week or so and then I can start at Westlake. I, ah, I'm not kidding about the commute, so there may be times when I update in the evening instead of the morning as I've been doing for quite awhile. I'll do my best and we'll have to see how things shake out. I also don't know how the current hysteria will affect things, but I bet it will. I shall keep ya'll posted.
> 
> Keep the Peace! And I thank Aslan for His provision in the midst of this rollercoaster ride.


	5. Living and Learning

Spike carried the kids’ bags into the spare room while his mother exclaimed over the pair and doted on Alanna – one of her few _female_ grandchildren to spoil. Not that his Mamá neglected Lance – she didn’t – but Alanna was her favored ‘grandchild’ and both siblings knew it. When Spike had first picked up on the favoritism, he’d been offended on Lance’s behalf, but then the teen confided that both sets of grandparents had died before Alanna could really get to know them…but _he_ had, a little bit…so he didn’t mind Alanna getting a ‘grandparent’ she knew. Despite the tale, the bomb tech had still been a trifle upset with his mother and quietly asked her to not make her favoritism so blatant – a request she’d complied with, particularly when his Papá agreed with him.

Papá… Spike’s steps slowed and he sniffed to himself, hating that a part of him was _grateful_ Papá would never find out about the serial killer or the curse he’d been hit with. Sarge might’ve been able to give him back his English and _Italiano_ , but… He kept slipping and not realizing it. Kept babbling in _Narnian_ and putting his teammates in danger. Some days, he could catch himself – when he caught himself staring in puzzlement at his computer screen because he couldn’t read the _words_ or when his phone’s text turned into gibberish – but others… Spike closed his eyes, shame filtering through him at how many times his teammates had had to yell Englisc at him to break him out of a slip.

Sighing to himself, Spike let the bags down, one on each bed for the kids to figure out later and headed back to the kitchen. Why had Sarge wanted them staying with _him_ anyway? There had been something about Marina and Ed’s idea, but Spike hadn’t been clear on why _him_ – he’d been more interested in his boss’s kids as a ‘peace offering’ to keep his mother from getting any more upset with him over how many times he slipped at home. Fresh shame budded – the kids deserved more consideration than just being peace offerings.

Inside the kitchen, Mamá was plying both children with lemonade – homemade of course – and chattering on about what they were learning in school. A third glass, already fogging with condensation, waited for Spike; he slid onto the counter-top chair and scooped up the glass. The cool liquid trailed down his throat, nearly drawing a moan; he’d been _parched_. He gulped down a third of the glass, then set it back down with a satisfied sigh. **“So, how is school going?”**

“Mikey!”

Huh? “Mōdor?”

Launcelot coughed, reclaiming Scéaþ’s attention. “It’s been going fine, Uncle Spike.”

He blinked, the words sounding…odd – then they didn’t and he wilted. “I did it again, didn’t I?” Spike clutched his hair, frustration oozing out. “I don’t do this with Italian!”

“You grew up knowing them both, right?” Curiosity rang in the young man’s voice.

Spike cocked his head to the side, considering. “Basically, yeah,” he agreed. Glancing up at his Mamá, he added, “I really don’t remember not knowing…both.” Except for when he’d been cursed.

Alanna leaned forward, her voice thoughtful as she offered, “So maybe you haven’t slipped into Italian because your mind already knows how to tell English and Italian apart.”

**“But it doesn’t know how to tell** Englisc **apart?”**

“Apparently not,” Launcelot concluded dryly.

“We’ll work on that,” Blyican agreed, trading glances with her brother.

**“We will? How?”**

Launcelot leaned forward. “How can you tell when you’re speaking Italian?”

**“It sounds different,”** Scéaþ replied at once.

“In your head?” Blyican asked.

**“Sure. Sometimes I’m talking** in Italian and that’s the language I’m thinking in, too.”

“You… _think_ in two languages?” Alanna wondered, her eyes wide at the thought.

“Don’t you?” Spike countered. “I mean, you can speak Narnian, right?”

“Old English,” Lance corrected. “And…kinda, but not really. Our magic translates most languages into English.”

The bomb tech’s eyes widened. “So you can understand _any_ language?”

The siblings traded glances. “In theory,” Alanna agreed after a minute of thought. “I think we _do_ know Old English – or at least our magic knows it – but we still _think_ in English.”

**“Not necessarily, sis.”** Both Scéaþ and Blyican gawped at Launcelot, who looked absurdly pleased with himself. “Uncle Greg said he could talk to you in Old English, Uncle Spike. Figured we could do it, too.”

Scéaþ’s interest piqued. **“And you were thinking** **in Narnian?”**

**“Yep,”** Launcelot confirmed. **“I think I’ve got the trick of it now.”** His forehead furrowed before another grin peaked through. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Kinda weird actually.”

**“It is,”** Blyican agreed. “You think that’s why Uncle Greg couldn’t teach us Italian?”

“Because of your magic?” Spike ventured. It made sense – if their magic kept translating everything into English, they could never get a feel for what other languages even _sounded_ like, much less how to _speak_ in them. And…had he just switched languages again? “So…you think you can help me stop slipping?”

“Shouldn’t be _that_ hard, right? You already know how to tell the difference between English and Italian – we’ve just got to get you to recognize the difference between English and Old English.”

“Narnian,” Spike countered firmly. “I’ll never get it if you keep calling it Old English.”

The siblings traded looks, then turned back to him and nodded in sync. “Copy that, Uncle Spike. Narnian it is.”

“It is your native language?” Mamá asked, curiosity ringing.

“Our magic’s native language at least,” Alanna offered.

To Scéaþ’s utter astonishment, his Mōdor’s objections to his new language evaporated like mist. It was almost enough to make him jealous of Blyican. Almost.

* * * * *

Ironically, the first thing Spike managed to catch onto was _names_. Oh he’d known he kept using Narnian names for his teammates when he was thinking in Narnian, but he hadn’t quite made the leap between _that_ and recognizing which language he was using. Lance and Alanna were bemused by his chagrin – and also by the names themselves. From what Spike could pick up, they were impressed that his cursed mind had been able to _rename_ every member of his team while he’d been stuck _strictly_ with Narnian.

Either way, the name realization was finally doing the trick – Launcelot had even… Scéaþ thumped his head on the table. **“Brat,”** he mumbled.

**“Not bad, you caught on in less than a minute that time,”** Lance observed, thoughtfully eyeing the stopwatch in his left hand.

“Stop trying to trick me,” Spike whined.

**“When you catch on in under ten seconds,”** Alanna countered from the opposite side, amusement dancing.

**“Then you have to tell me about** Marina,” Scéaþ snapped.

The siblings traded wide-eyed glances. **“Didn’t come up with a new name for her,”** Launcelot mused.

**“Why would I?”** Scéaþ grumbled. **“She keeps treating** Þegen **like some kinda…** Darn it! Stop tricking me!”

Lance cracked a grin, then sobered, poking mulishly at the school textbook in front of him. **“You know how she hadn’t ‘met’ us yet?”**

“Sure,” Spike agreed warily. “ ‘Cause you two never moved here in that history.”

**“Well, she doesn’t know that,”** Alanna put in sorrowfully. “Lance **pretended it was his fault so she’d stop being mad at** Fædera Greg, **but it kinda backfired. Now she thinks we’re two brats who can’t stand their** ‘fæder’ **dating again.”**

Scéaþ blinked. **“But** Þegen’s **_not_ your **fæder… Aww, come on! Speak _English_ , willya?” He frowned when they didn’t even smile at his protest.

**“I bet she wants to send us off to boarding school if she and** Fædera Greg **ever get married,”** Lance grumbled.

**“Before, if she can manage it,”** Alanna agreed sourly.

“You do know that _does_ sound like two brats mad about their uncle dating again, don’t you?”

Two unimpressed glares swung in Spike’s direction. **“I said I was sorry,”** Lance countered. **“And** ‘Lanna’s **been sneaking stuff together on the sly for their dinner dates, but she doesn’t even _talk_ to us.”**

**“She talks _down_ to us,”** Alanna finished, her voice just as disgusted as her brother’s. **“And she keeps trying to act like our** mōdor.”

**“What? Why?”** But Scéaþ had a sinking feeling he _knew_ why – if Marina saw his boss as the kids’ surrogate fæder, then she was casting _herself_ as their surrogate mōdor. **“Sounds like you’ve got a _Parent Trap_ problem,”** he declared.

Two sets of eyes blinked at him. **“A _Parent Trap_ problem?”** Blyican echoed. **“What’s that?”**

**“I’ll…** Would you two _stop?_ Come on, enough for one day, _please!_ ”

“Okay,” Lance agreed, shaking his head at Alanna when she looked about to protest. “But tomorrow, you’re fair game, Uncle Spike.”

“Deal.” It was the best offer he was going to get – plus, he really _did_ need to stop slipping, even if the kids’ method was driving him absolutely _crazy_. Spike rose to find his _Parent Trap_ DVD, musing to himself that if Marina was really as bad as she sounded…well, a prank or two might not go amiss. Just to see if she could deal with the Boss’s resident pranksters. A smirk emerged, his jokester side rubbing his hands with glee. Good thing he was about to pull out a movie with _plenty_ of _excellent_ pranking material…

“I will join you, Mikey.”

“Mamá?” She almost _never_ liked his movies.

His mother smiled and entered the living room with her knitting bag, settling herself on her favorite recliner. “Get us hot chocolate, Mikey, then put your movie on.”

Spike’s eyes widened even further – hot chocolate and a movie night had been a special treat growing up, but it had been _years_ … His smirk transformed into a happy grin. _“Sí, Mamá!”_

“Then you may entertain us with your attempts to keep from speaking Narnian.”

The kids snickered and the bomb tech flushed bright red. At least his Mōdor was laughing instead of…

“Darn it!”

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And fade to black... Well, not exactly a positive, happily-ever-after story, I do admit, but it comes after an episode that was really just as tragic. We also had some very tough revelations in the past few stories that I felt needed to be at least addressed. I won't say they've been fixed, even if it might look like it, but we've at least had the initial breakthroughs for Wordy and Spike. As for our favorite Auror, he's gonna need some time and help, but Team One is on the case and they'll be keeping a close eye on him.
> 
> As always, I very much appreciate any and all reviews. In the meantime, we'll be kicking off our next story, "Cops and Wolves", next Tuesday, March 24th 2020.
> 
> See you on the Battlefield!
> 
> RL Update: Welcome back to the rollercoaster. Out of the blue yesterday, I got a flurry of communication from my current manager, asking me to contact my 'team' to get personal info, and then asking to arrange a meeting for today, plus our in-company profiles. Then he claims there is an 'immediate' project opportunity, so I pressed him, asking him if that means I will not be going to Finance and he said _Yes!_ I hastily went to the hiring manager and my contact with the Finance project, but at this point, what happens next is anyone's guess.
> 
> *muted sob*
> 
> I just want a project! I want to work and I'm not _interested_ in some carrot of 'you can have a squeaky brand-new project if you just wait long enough!' A brand-new project sounds nice, but it really means the extreme probability of what I just went through - which was an utter _mess_. I want a project _now_ and if they drag this on much longer, I'm going to end up either paying month to month or in stuck in a lease that means a painfully long commute for a year.
> 
> Sorry for the rant and please, _please_ pray for me. I've reached the point where I'm unable to pray myself. I'm just so _sick_ of praying and getting told to _wait_ and sit tight while I get jerked around from here to Timbuktu! I know God is in control, but as the Babylon Bee wryly pointed out, He was in control during all the great tragedies of history, too. Kinda sad when I find myself 100% agreeing with a satire website.


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